


let us dream of tomorrow

by blueffect (orphan_account)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, Light Introspection, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/blueffect
Summary: As Mark falls asleep, he lets himself dream of Donghyuck.





	let us dream of tomorrow

When Mark opens his eyes, it’s to a world full of light. Sunlight spills through the cracks in the curtains, pouring into the room and flooding it with a mellow golden glow the colour of sunflowers and tangerines and warmth. It’s so bright that for a moment Mark is stunned: he could have sworn that he was awake moments ago, could have sworn that he was in the studio.   
  
He doesn’t recognise these sheets, pure and white and fluffy, feeling like clouds around him as they tie him down to the mattress beneath. He doesn’t recognise this room with it’s king sized bed and gossamer curtains which allow just too much light in but somehow Mark doesn’t mind. He doesn’t recognise the birdsong outside: it’s been long since he’s heard it; their dorm is too high up in the complex and the studio is silent.   
  
Mark wishes he could say he doesn’t recognise the body beside him, but that would be a lie. He’s studied that face so meticulously he could trace the dips and valleys of it with his eyes closed. He’s fallen in love with it a hundred times, and watching him sleeping now, face framed with white sheets, glowing under the watch of the dawn, Mark falls in love all over again. That familiar heavy feeling in his chest spreads throughout his body, rushing through his veins, tickling the tips of his fingers.   
  
Donghyuck shifts in his sleep, the rustle of the sheets muffled behind Mark’s heavy heartbeat. Mark waits for him to still, and then sighs, letting the air slip from his lips slowly and carefully, as if any quick movement could shatter this delicate reality that Mark’s built in his mind. For this is all that it is: a dream.   
  
Mark knew the moment he saw Donghyuck. It wasn’t the unfamiliar room, the bed, the sunlight, even the birdsong.   
  
It was Donghyuck.   
  
It’s always been Donghyuck.   
  
Always just out of reach, but Mark will chase him. He’ll chase him to the ends of the earth, from this reality to the next. He’ll chase him until the sun no longer rises in the east and stars grow weary, because Mark knows that the feeling in his chest is true. The fire that’s bloomed there is eternal, and though Mark’s tried before, he doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to get rid of it. Sometimes the fire roars, hot and searing and painful, and Mark wants nothing more than to put it out. Sometimes it burns slow, simmering, a few embers dancing in the darkness of his mind.   
  
Mark knows that these feelings don’t define him, but sometimes he asks himself if it’s so bad that he wants them to? Sometimes he asks himself if it’s so bad that he wants to be called Donghyuck’s. Donghyuck’s Mark. If it’s so bad that he wants to call Donghyuck his.   
  
These feelings don’t define him. Mark is so much more. He’s been called loyal. He’s been told that he’s kind. That he’s true. These feelings don’t define Mark, but they consume him. If the dreams weren’t enough, then it’s the looks everyone sends Mark that give it away. Sometimes they’re pitiful. Sicheng’s are, at least, but then again, it’s hard to tell with him. Hard to tell what’s pity and what’s sorrow, and where the line blurs between the two. Taeyong’s are laced with irritability. Johnny’s with understanding.

But Mark doesn’t care for their sympathy. He doesn’t care for their understanding, or their worries, or their unease. Perhaps it’s selfish, but Mark’s been called selfless one too many times, and he deserves something for himself. Perhaps he doesn’t deserve Donghyuck (Mark doesn’t think anyone will ever deserve Donghyuck), but he deserves the right to love him, to cherish him, and this is a right he’ll fight for until that fire burns out. 

Perhaps Mark doesn’t deserve Donghyuck, but in his dreams, he does. In his dreams, they love each other so truly that the sun weeps and the stars blink in disbelief.

But dreams don’t last forever. Like the sunlight, they slip through Mark’s fingers. Sometimes he forgets them, but he doesn’t forget the feeling they leave behind, raw and untamed and honest. Everything Mark wishes he could say but can’t. Everything he wishes for but can’t have. 

His dreams always end the same way. 

Mark will reach out with shaky fingers, wondering if this time will be different. If maybe he’ll catch up to Donghyuck. He’ll reach out, fingers ghosting the last one hundredth of an inch, to tuck a loose strand of golden hair behind his ear, and it all falls apart. 

It doesn’t shatter. That would be too harsh, too abrupt. It falls. Falls the way water does off a cliff, dissolving into a million drops of diamonds, catching what’s left of the sunlight, glistening for a last, true, beautiful moment, before plunging back down into reality. 

And as Mark reaches out through the warm tangerine glow, hand shaking over the clouds of sheets, he knows what’s going to happen. He chases Donghyuck, fingertips barely brushing him, before the dream dissolves, and Mark’s waking up. 

This time, when Mark opens his eyes, it’s not to a world full of light. It’s to a panelled ceiling and the shadow of a car driving past outside. He wakes to reality. 

  
  
  
  


Mark and Donghyuck have a _ thing. _An unspoken rule to meet at Mark’s room every night just before bed, their teeth brushed, dressed down in loose-fitting t-shirts and sweats. 

“You look tired as hell,” Donghyuck says in way of a greeting, as he does every night. He doesn’t wait for Mark to respond - doesn’t wait for an invitation - before crawling onto Mark’s bed as if it’s his own, throwing the pillows to the side and snuggling up to the headboard. Mark rolls his eyes at the mess his bed’s become, but he’s too endeared by the way Donghyuck’s looking at him in wait to say anything.

“You don’t look much better,” Mark retorts, leaning over the side of his bed to search underneath for his guitar, words strained from the effort of lugging it up onto the bed. Donghyuck snorts as Mark flexes his arms. This is the most he’s worked out these past few days. 

“Yeah, well. Recording is tiring.” Mark can tell. 

Donghyuck’s normally bright eyes are lined with an edge of exhaustion. Sleep seeps into his words, the slight lisp that Donghyuck usually makes an effort to conceal bleeds into his speech. Mark doesn’t like seeing Donghyuck like this, exhausted beyond reason. He doesn’t like seeing Donghyuck try to hide it. But he knows that even if he intervenes, puts a steady hand on his shoulder to tell him that it’s okay to stop for the day, they can always come back tomorrow, Donghyuck won’t budge. He won’t leave the recording studio until he’s hit that high note perfectly, until he can steady his breathing enough that he doesn’t sound like he’s run a mile. Donghyuck tries and tries again until he succeeds, pushing himself past his limit, and it’s not to please the others. Donghyuck knows Mark doesn’t care. It’s to please himself, his own way of showing himself that he’s done good. 

Mark holds back everything he wants to say to Donghyuck. It’s a skill he’s long perfected. 

Instead, Mark moves up the bed, leaning against the headboard besides Donghyuck so that they’re shoulder to shoulder. The room is quiet save for their steady breathing and the dull thumping of Mark’s heartbeat. 

Mark pulls his guitar up onto his lap, fingers drifting down to the strings, skimming over them before settling. Mark closes his eyes and feels the weight of the instrument in his hands. 

“What do you want to play?” Mark asks, starting to strum a few chords to warm himself up, the mellow sound filling the empty space.

“Not sure.” Donghyuck shifts besides him. “We’ve already worked through half of Michael Jackson’s discography.” 

Mark smiles. “You want to finish?” 

“I haven’t even listened to the other half yet.”

Mark stops strumming and opens his eyes. He glances sideways. “Then let’s listen.” 

Donghyuck hums and reaches over Mark to the bedside table, swiping up his phone before Mark can say anything. He turns it over in his hands as he always does, nose scrunched in distaste. 

“I can’t believe you still have an android,” he says, turning it on and typing in Mark’s password.

“Hey, my Mum got it for me!” Mark protests, but before he can say anything else the squeal of strings fills the room and Mark’s falling silent.   
  
Donghyuck sighs and closes his eyes, pulling Mark’s blanket up and over him. Mark inches closer to Donghyuck, snuggling under the blanket too.   
  
“You better be clean,” Mark grumbles. “I just washed these sheets.”   
  
“Shut up and enjoy the music,” Donghyuck huffs, leaning on Mark’s shoulder, which is enough to silence him.   
  
Sure enough, Michael Jackson’s voice filters through the speakers, the English sending a familiar burst of warmth through his body as he strains to hear every word. Besides him, Donghyuck struggles to mouth along to the lyrics, lips stumbling over the unfamiliar sounds. Mark frowns.   
  
“You know this song?”   
  
Donghyuck hums. “I was going to finish the album, but I wanted to listen to this song first.”

"Sing it for me, then,” Mark challenges. Donghyuck lifts his head off Mark’s shoulder to stare at him, unimpressed.

“Not MJ,” Donghyuck says, in English, this time. He speaks slowly so as not to bumble over the vowels. “The King.” 

“Why not? You sing just as well as he does.” 

Donghyuck pauses, eyes narrowing to slits. Mark doesn’t miss the way he fights down a smile; Mark knows Donghyuck is weak for compliments, for praise. “You’re a bad liar, Mark Lee.” He pushes off the headboard and climbs over Mark to slide off the bed, but before he can, Mark’s circling his wrist and tugging him back into his chest. Donghyuck falls and lands on his lap, resting his head on Mark’s thigh, the remaining air in Mark’s lungs being forced out with a small ‘oof’. 

“Who says I’m lying?” 

“I do,” Donghyuck retorts, and if Donghyuck says Mark’s lying, then Mark supposes he’s lying.

(He’s not.)

Michael Jackson hums in the background, and somewhere in the dorm, loud bellows of laughter can be heard. Donghyuck opens his mouth to say something, hesitant, for the first time tonight. Mark waits as Donghyuck toys with the idea of speaking up. 

“Do you ever think about running away?” Donghyuck asks, and it’s not what Mark expected. He looks down at Donghyuck and blinks. 

He could tell him the truth, but there’s a nagging fear that Donghyuck would ask Mark to explain it. And what would Mark say?

He could say, ‘I dream about it all the time’. He could tell him about the time he fell asleep, and between closing his eyes and opening them, they’d flown to Canada and back. Mark has his license and they’ve snuck out of Mark’s parent’s house in the dead of night and taken the rusty truck in the garage. Mark’s thrown his softest blankets in the back along with a few pillows, because he knows cuddling is what Donghyuck likes best. They don’t bother checking what’s in the stereo, and when they press play, some crappy British 80s rock band is blasting through the speakers, but they laugh because they’re high on the adrenaline and nothing could ruin this. 

He could say, ‘I dream about it all the time, and every time, you’re there’, because how could he abandon everything and not take Donghyuck? Who else would tell him he looks ugly at five in the morning with his bedhead and puffy face and stubble? Who else would nag at him to put oil on the pan before he fries his sausages, and not after? 

Mark could say a lot of things, but he doesn’t. He holds his tongue, and instead says “no”, like a liar. 

Donghyuck huffs, and the sleep is evident with the way the smirk crawls onto his face, slow and languid. “I guess you’re just boring, then.”

“Whatever,” Mark says, removing his hand from under the blanket to come up and thread through Donghyuck’s hair, the strands soft and pliant under his touch. Donghyuck’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling, and Mark gets the courage to ask: “Do you ever think about it? Running away?” 

“All the time,” Donghyuck replies. “And you know what’s funny? It’s always with you.” Mark’s fingers still in Donghyuck’s hair, and Donghyuck’s eyes fly open as he takes in what he’s just said. 

“Hyuck-”

“Don’t tell Jeno,” Donghyuck’s voice is little more than a whisper. “Or Jaemin, or Renjun, for that matter. They’d just get jealous.” 

Mark forces himself to smile. He removes the fingers from Donghyuck’s hair. The Michael Jackson song has faded out, and all that’s left behind is a gaping silence. The clock on Mark’s night stand ticks with a steady rhythm, unlike Mark’s frantic heart. 

“It’s eleven,” Donghyuck says after a few moments. He doesn’t move from Mark’s lap.

“Yeah,” Mark breathes out. “You should go,” Mark tells him.

Donghyuck smiles, tired eyes folding with mirth. Still, he doesn’t move. “I should.” 

It’s only when a new song rolls on, cacophonous drums blaring through the speakers, does Donghyuck budge, snatching Mark’s phone from amongst the blankets and closing Spotify. 

“Charge your shit android and get some sleep,” Donghyuck says as he rolls off Mark’s bed, stretching with a little purr before shuffling towards the door. 

“Goodnight, Hyuck,” Mark grins, watching as Donghyuck sidles out of the room, giving him a blasé wave before disappearing. Mark falls back onto his bed, surrounded by a mess of blankets and unfluffed pillows.

He thinks about tonight. He thinks about Donghyuck, and his hidden smiles, and his tired eyes. He thinks, and he thinks some more. Some would say Mark thinks too much, but it’s Donghyuck. It’s Donghyuck, who won’t think about himself. Donghyuck, who would go to all lengths to hide his insecurities but berate Jisung for cursing at himself over a missed note or a slip during practice.

The same way Mark isn’t defined by Donghyuck, Donghyuck isn’t defined by Mark. He knows it’s inevitable that people will see it that way - they’ll see Donghyuck laughing with another member and wonder why he isn’t laughing with Mark, or the two will sit further away from each other than normal at a variety show, and people will wonder if they’re fighting. But they don’t see the full the picture. They never will, Mark thinks, and it’s painful, because they’ll never see Donghyuck as more than Mark, more than his high notes and full cheeks and tanned skin. They’ll see him as the youngest, the trouble maker. They don’t see Donghyuck, and perhaps sometimes Mark doesn’t see Donghyuck either, but he tries his best. He tries his best to see Donghyuck past Haechan, and sometimes it’s hard. But Mark doesn’t want to run away with Haechan, he wants to run away with Donghyuck. 

He wants Donghyuck, and the way he smiles in face of tension. The way he hides his insecurities behind Haechan, behind sarcastic quips and nasal giggles. He wants Donghyuck, regardless of the headaches and the little bouts of irritation that bubble up. 

Because this could be a story about Mark falling in love with Donghyuck, but why should it be, when it’s been told time and time again? Why should it be, when the universe and all it’s stars know that Mark will fall in love with Donghyuck in this reality and the next and the next, over and over until time ceases to tick and all the rivers have dried up. 

And though it may have started off with love, as all good things do, and though it may end with kisses and hugs and confessions, (as some good things do), this is reality. And perhaps Mark fantasises sometimes in his dreams. Perhaps he’s fallen in love over and over again. But between tales of love there is something so much more - Mark and Donghyuck are so much more. Between the tales of love there are tales of struggles and tears. Tales of friendships and hardships, resolutions and conflicts hard won but won nonetheless. 

We will let Mark love in his dreams, because dreams do not care for what is beneath the surface. They do not care for the complexity of character. They do not care that Mark is more than Donghyuck, or that Donghyuck isn’t defined by a few arbitrary traits. Dreams are shallow, but that’s okay, because for even a moment, they let you breathe easier. They let Mark breathe easier. Sometimes, of course, he’ll slip. He’ll drown, and find himself staring at Donghyuck’s lips or zoning out as he speaks.

Because this could be a story about Mark falling in love with Donghyuck, but it isn’t, because the fact of the matter is that Mark is already in love with Donghyuck, and Donghyuck is already in love with Mark. 

And sometimes love is more than a matter of the mind, or the heart. Sometimes love is a matter of the soul, and this is a story of two souls, reaching out through the expanse of the darkness, through the hurt and pain and tough times gone, to search for each other’s light. To chase it through thick and thin, better and worse. 

People are so much more than what we make them. Love is so much more than fluttering hearts and flushed cheeks; love is a matter of friendship, a matter of blasé waves and scrunched up noses. And in the future, they might kiss. They might kiss over a candlelit dinner, the scent of garlic and tomato sauce heavy in the air. Or perhaps it will be in the dorm room, the lights off, a cheesy romcom flashing on the television. Perhaps it will be under the watch of the night sky somewhere in suburban Toronto, in the back of a rusty truck, as some British 80s rock band blasts through the stereo. Perhaps they will kiss, and perhaps they will love each other, openly and passionately, but it will be after years of hardwon friendship. Years of pain, and years of seeing each other grow beyond what was thought to be possible. 

And as Mark falls asleep, he lets himself dream of Donghyuck. He lets himself dream beyond the realms of possibility, of love so passionate it hurts to think about. We could write it down, but we’ll never even begin to glean what it’s like to feel that, what it’s like to experience it. For as much as we write and hope and pray, we can’t pen words beautiful enough to change the colour of the sky. And as much as Mark dreams, those dreams may never bloom to be the reality he wanted, and that’s okay.

But even if for a moment, let us dream of tomorrow, even if that tomorrow may never come.   
  
  



End file.
